


It Might Get Loud

by brynnmck



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-06
Updated: 2011-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:54:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brynnmck/pseuds/brynnmck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A boy never forgets his first love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Might Get Loud

**Author's Note:**

> This was Sadiane's idea, and obviously I wrote it, but ultimately? I blame Frank. Special credit to sassbandit's epic [Frank/guitars picspam](http://sassbandit.dreamwidth.org/5455.html) for very helpful information and inspiration.

Frank gets Ray to hold out with him until the clock reads 3:42 in the morning, laughing and jamming on their unplugged guitars. But eventually even Ray's hands start to slip clumsily on the strings, which disturbs Frank enough on a fundamental level that when Ray says for the hundredth time that he has to go to bed, Frank doesn't argue. Ray ruffles Frank's hair on his way by and murmurs, "Fucking great show tonight, Frankie," as he makes his unsteady way back to the room the five of them are sharing for the night.

After Ray's thumps off the wall have receded into silence, Frank lets his head fall against the back of the couch. As exciting as the prospect of an actual bed is—they'd been planning on the van again, of course, but Mikey had used some Jedi mind trick on a chick with dreadlocks and a Black Flag tattoo and now here they are, in her basement, with beer and blankets and actual beds; Frank fucking loves Mikey—he's too tired to move and too buzzed to sleep, adrenaline wrestling with alcohol in his veins. The show had been fucking amazing, just like every show has been fucking amazing since Frank got to join his favorite band, up there with his friends at his side and dirty shining faces in front of him and his guitar shrieking sweetly in his hands. Pencey had been his, and he'd loved it, but this is something different: this is chasing a spark down a fuse, knowing it's only a matter of time before it explodes.

The thought sends a thrill from the back of his neck down to his toes, and he rolls his head against the ratty cushions, shifts his hips restlessly, until the quick spike of pleasure that jolts up from his dick reminds him that he's still got Pansy on his lap. And, apparently, he's half-hard and getting harder.

He can't help giggling a little, imagining what he must look like, half-passed-out on the couch and humping his guitar. This is a sign that he should go to sleep, clearly. Put Pansy away, crawl into bed (an _actual bed_ ) and tell this story the next night over beers, watch Ray's eyes go wide—Ray's guitars are his friends, and he treats them like gold, careful never to do anything to risk fucking up that relationship. But Frank, well, Frank's not really much on consequences, and it's dark and he's horny and it feels good, so he closes his eyes, curls a hand around the side of Pansy's body and tilts his hips up again experimentally.

 _"Fuck,"_ he moans before he can stop himself, because yeah, this is _definitely_ what he needs. But he also needs to not have to explain to anyone what the fuck he's doing (or rather, what the fuck he's fucking), so the next time he thrusts up, he bites down on his lip to keep quiet, and it feels incredible, the sharp point of pain at his mouth, the easy slide of his dick against the smooth finish through the denim of his jeans. He sucks in breath through his nose.

He finds an easy rhythm and lets his hands wander, up over the curves of her body, the long line of her neck, the rough strings that tease his fingers until they're buzzing. She's not his first guitar, but she's special: she's the first one he picked out because he wanted her, not just because she was all he could get. He can still remember the way she'd looked in the window, all gleaming white and fuck-you black, inlays grinning at him all the way up her neck. He'd lived on vegetable ramen noodles and Lucky Charms for months while he'd saved up, took odd jobs pet-sitting and house-painting and bussing tables at bars he wasn't old enough to work in, and now she's here, right at his side while he throws himself head-first at the life he's always wanted. He accidentally brushes his fingers across the strings and the vibration pulls another moan out of him, drowning out the tinny jangle of notes.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks, keeping it locked in his head this time, _fuckfuckfuck, yes, like that_ , but if he sits here strumming half-fucked Jimmy Eat World songs to get off, someone's going to get curious and he's never gonna get to finish. So he shoves his hand down between his legs instead, unzips his jeans and pulls his dick out through the slit in his boxers. He gives it a few hard jacks with his hand, but it's not enough, so he brings Pansy down again, shoving up against her back, trapping his dick in the sweat-damp space between her and his stomach. At first his skin sticks to her and he winces at the tug; he swipes two fingers across the pre-come on the head of his dick and smears it along Pansy's back, there where she's smooth and hard and warm from him, and shit, yeah, that's good, that's _perfect_ , and he's not gonna last much longer.

He digs his feet into the carpet and arches back, driving his head into the cushion behind him, jerking his hips faster, harder. With his eyes closed, he can feel the energy of the show still reverberating in his bones, feel the music moving through him, the scrape of the stage against his knees and the bite of strings against his calluses. He can feel his band solid and warm at his back, and he wants to kiss everyone in the crowd, wants to fling himself against the sound until it leaves bruises, wants to rage at the far edge of ecstasy forever. He wants— _fuck_ , he wants, he _wants_ —and he lets his hand fall across the strings once, just once, and that's it. He flips Pansy over just in time, protecting her delicate pickups and strings as he splashes come all over the glossy white surface of her back.

He stays there for a while, slumped on the couch, giddy and stupid with sleep-deprivation and orgasm. When he can move his legs, he tucks himself away, then grabs Gerard's discarded hoodie and takes it with him to the tiny bathroom, blinking in the bright light while he carefully cleans the come off Pansy's back with the arm of the hoodie. He was going to steal it to wash it soon anyway, for everybody's sake, so technically, he's not doing anything to violate band etiquette regarding jerking off on communal property. Not that Gerard would probably see it that way, but whatever, that's what he gets for being so supremely oblivious about laundry.

Back in the main room, Frank presses a kiss to Pansy's headstock, then tucks her back in her case with one last, loving caress of his fingers up her fretboard. Then he gives in to a jaw-cracking yawn and zombie-walks down the short hallway to their room.

It's pitch dark, but when Frank's eyes adjust, he can see Ray and Mikey sprawled out on one bed, with Gerard and Otter on the other one. It looks like a fairly tight fit already, but Frank's small, so he pads across the room and shoves at Gerard's shoulder until he groans and moves over as much as he can, causing a brief avalanche of grumbling as Otter shifts on his other side.

"Frkie?" Gerard mumbles when Frank climbs in next to him, curling an arm over Gerard's chest and hooking his ankle over Gerard's calf in a vain attempt at stability. He figures it's sixty-forty that he ends up on the floor before morning. "Y'okay?"

Frank aims a sloppy kiss toward whatever part of Gerard is nearest his mouth—Gerard's jaw, he thinks, judging by the curve of bone under his lips. "I'm good, Gee. Go back to sleep."

"Ngk," Gerard replies, tipping his head to rest against Frank's. He smells like stage-sweat and cheap makeup and cigarette smoke, and Frank smiles into his throat.

"Gerard," he whispers. "We get to do this again tomorrow."

Gerard doesn't answer, unless a faint wheeze through his nose counts as an answer. Frank just grins in the dark, cuddles closer, and goes to sleep.


End file.
